


Promise Me

by DirectionAndVelocity (SublimeDiscordance)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e09 The Climb, canon assumed character death, canon character death, mild warning for language, references to arrow season 2.5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SublimeDiscordance/pseuds/DirectionAndVelocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Promise me you won't cry...</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise Me

“ _I’d just rather die than let you go it alone._ ”

Diggle may say the words, but Roy feels them echo on something in his chest. Feels something cold and sharp twist in the hollow space that has become his gut. Feels that something dig its claws deeper when Ollie turns to him, takes a single step forward, hand landing on the table in an aborted gesture of some kind.

Roy looks at him, looks at Ollie, meets his eyes even though the other man won’t meet his. Sees reflected in that off-center gaze so many words, so many emotions: things that have always tied Ollie’s tongue in knots. He can see the strength there that he’s always admired, always, in a way, envied. Can see the eyes of a haunted man that hide just behind it, memories from the island—from wherever the hell Oliver’d been, from whatever story he’s whispered into Roy’s skin at night—never quite leaving. Can see the concerned older brother, the _good man_ , folded up beneath that: the man who had captured Roy’s heart at some point in the last few months. The man Roy fell in love with.

The man Roy is going to lose if he doesn’t fucking do _something_.

When Oliver’s eyes finally meet his own, Roy can’t keep quiet any longer. Diggle might have accepted this—isn’t _okay_ with this, but has accepted it apparently—but Roy...

“Oliver, I—”

“Roy, I need you to do something for me.”

“Oliver, _no_.” He’s shaking his head, hands clenching in his pockets. “Don’t.”

“Roy—” Oliver’s tone is soft, as it always is in moments like these, in moments that _mean_ something. It’s as endearing as it is infuriating, and Roy finds himself with his fists on the table, the edge of one hand brushing the side of Oliver’s fingers. Doesn’t miss the look Ollie sends Diggle, the other man stepping away. Giving them space.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he’s pleading now; doesn’t care. “Don’t ask me to stay behind. Don’t ask me to just...to just be _useless_ again. To just sit and wait here and not know if you’re—” Roy has to look away then, the heat that’d been growing in his chest overtaken by cold again. His fingernails bite into his palms as he squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t do that, Ollie. I _can’t_. I _won’t_.”

Warm palms come to rest on his clenched fists, and Roy’s eye spring open, gaze swiveling to meet Oliver’s again, the bottom of his vision a blur. He hadn’t meant to let Oliver’s nickname slip out like that, here, where they’re not alone. Others might call the other man that, but to Roy it’s...private. Intimate, in a way. He doesn’t _do_ nicknames. Hell, being called by a codename was hard enough—okay, maybe he only allowed it because 'Arsenal' made him sound like a badass—but others? His face reddens, and he opens his mouth to speak again.

“Roy, I need you to take care of Thea for me.”

“I—” Roy stops. Stares, unprepared, blinking. Warmth runs down his face as he does. Why the hell would Oliver think that he—Thea’s practically like a sister to him at this point, and if anything happens to Oliver, she’s going to be— 

“I—Absolutely. Of course, Ollie. I—”

“Promise me, Roy.”

Roy has to swallow the lump forming in his throat before finally answering, refusing to break Oliver’s gaze.

“I promise. you know I wouldn’t let anythi—”

He doesn’t get to finish. Oliver pulls him into a hug with a whispered, “Thank you,” that sounds more like a goodbye than Roy wants to even begin to think about. He shivers when he feels Oliver’s breath against his neck, tightens his grip around the other man’s broad shoulders. Breathes deep, taking in the scent that is pure _Oliver_ as he presses his lips to the other man’s collarbone. There is a finality in Ollie’s words, something that makes Roy want to curl into the other man’s embrace and never leave; something that makes him want to scream and shout and _fight_ , damn it.

Something that makes those cold claws in Roy’s chest bear down, and he knows—fucking _knows_ —in that moment that he isn’t winning this argument.

“Thank me by coming back alive,” is all he says instead of the words pushing at his teeth, pressing his lips to Oliver’s just because. Can’t help murmuring a soft, “Please,” after a moment’s silence.

And maybe silence is all he gets in reply, but it’s what he’ll take.

 

———

 

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Roy.”

Roy doesn’t even look up from where he’s wearing a groove in the ‘cave floor. Doesn’t stop fiddling with his phone, twirling it between two fingers idly. Diggle’s been working out for the past hour, the sounds a background hum when compared to the thoughts screeching through Roy’s mind. He allows himself to ponder sparring with the older man, but Diggle would probably say no—he’s pretty sure the other man isn’t in the mood to get his ass handed to him yet again, since the only one who can match Roy’s agility at this point is Ollie himself.

Ollie…

He stops throwing his phone around, but doesn’t stop his pacing.

“I know, Felicity, just...I hate this. The waiting for him to come back.”

He turns around and his eyes land on his Arsenal gear. On that red, leather jacket he’d insisted looked ridiculous with all of its stupid fucking laces and its fade to black because _really_? On those pants he’d complained were too form-fitting and had too many god damn buckles. He’d complained for all of ten seconds, though, before he’d caught the way Oliver’d _looked_ at him, blue eyes practically _branding_ Roy’s skin with their intensity. It hadn’t been the first time they’d fucked, but it _had_ only been the second, and it was the first time Roy had convinced Ollie to just...let go. That he could take it, that he _wanted_ to take it: everything that Ollie had to give. He has to shake his head to dislodge the memory.

“I just wish I could be there for him.”

“Well, I mean, it’s only been a few hours, I’m sure we’ll probably hear something soon—”

Which is, of course, the moment the door opens, and maybe Roy whirls towards the sound just a little bit desperately. Maybe as slow, ponderous footsteps move down the stairs, he hopes—hell, maybe he even sends out a little prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in—against hope that it’s Oliver, smiling that triumphant little smirk of his that makes Roy want to kiss him senseless. Maybe it’s that hope that draws the word from between his lips, barely audible to his own ears over the desperate thudding of his own heart in his ears.

“ _Oliver_?”

As soon as he sees a single, black-booted foot come into view, though, the hope fragments. Shatters. Slides out of his chest like broken glass, slicing and shredding his innards on its way down into his stomach. The second he sees the bottom of the familiar cloak, Roy’s instincts flare, weeks— _months_ —of training kicking his body into action. He doesn’t quite remember dropping his phone and moving over to his gear, but he obviously did it because he’s got his bow in hand, an arrow notched and pointed at Nyssa’s chest the moment she comes into view. Her gaze is cast downward, eyes surveying the room yet somehow managing to not look at any of them.

“No, I’m afraid not,” she breathes. Swallows visibly before lifting her gaze to look straight at Roy. Straight _through_ him in a way only Ollie’s ever been able to manage. He only manages to keep his hands from shaking through sheer force of habit. “I come bearing news.”

She doesn’t have to say it, though. It’s written all over her face, plain as day, and Roy feels suddenly as if his entire body has been emptied, like he’s a drying, decayed husk with maggots squirming through the places his veins used to be, crawling through his bleached skull and between his exposed ribs. Like there’s a yawning chasm that’s opened beneath his feet and if he moves a single fucking inch he’s going to fall in, only managing to keep his balance because he was already being held in the right place. But the hands are gone, _Ollie_ —

Oliver is gone.

That thought fills him. Drives the emptiness away until it’s pounding through Roy’s skull, blotting everything else out in its single-minded rage. Until his world is _red red red, the red to Oliver’s green, red like blood_ — 

He hears Nyssa’s lips forming more words, then feels his own throat working, his mouth moving through shapes, saying _something_ , before everything goes blessedly black. It doesn’t stay that way, though. It must’ve only been a couple of seconds, because his throat is still making noise, mouth still trying to form words even as he feels the concrete wall against his cheek, scraping his skin as his jaw works furiously. It’s only when there’s a sharp pain in his shoulder that he realizes Nyssa has his arm pinned at his back and twisted in a way that is almost mind-numbing with how much it fucking _hurts_.

It’s also when he starts actually listening to the words coming out of his mouth. Or, rather, the noises. They might’ve been intended to be words, but at this point they’re nothing more than screams and swearing and half-finished threats and—

Why is his face wet? Why is everything blurry? Shit, is he...is he _crying_?

Roy’s entire body seizes with the realization. Trying to push at Nyssa’s grip on him. Stills when she pushes his shoulder just that little bit further, making him cry out. His throat is warm, scratchy, feels like he’s swallowed god damn razor blades, and it’s all he can do to whimper quietly as the pain—pain that comes, not from his shoulder, but from somewhere in the center of his chest—sweeps over him. Replaces the rage and whatever had been fueling him before as his entire body goes slack against the wall.

“Ollie,” he whimpers, feels the grip on his arm slacken until he just...collapses. Ends up curled in on himself, his shoulder pressed to the wall, holding his face in his hands. He can’t fucking _breathe_. “ _Fuck_ … Oliver… Ollie… please...”

His words descend into unintelligible sounds again as his shoulder heave, Oliver’s name the only one he can reliably form. He’s not sure how long he stays there, drowning, stomach roiling, breath catching over and over again. Only knows that Oliver is gone. Oliver is _dead_ , and—and what does that make him? Where does that leave him?

Left behind.

 _Nothing_.

Oliver had faced death more than once for Roy. Hell, he’d fucking saved his life _with_ a dislocated shoulder. A dislocated shoulder that he’d gotten because Roy’d gotten himself shot and fallen out of a fucking airplane, so Oliver, like the fucking bleeding heart he was, had rescued him at the cost of his own mobility.

And then he’d saved Roy _again_ even with that already slowing him down.

And what’d Roy done? Stayed behind. Left Oliver to die. Not backed up the man who meant more to him than anyone else in the world when it’d really mattered. Abandoned the man who’d promised never to abandon him. Just...stood there and done _nothing_ —

A hand on his shoulder makes Roy start, and his head swivels so fast he could swear his vertebrae crack with the force of it, gaze falling on Nyssa.

...What?

“I know,” she says, hand gripping his shoulder tighter, holding his gaze. “I know the pain of losing your beloved, of not being present for their final moments. I know the ache it leaves in its wake, the feeling that the world is empty and cruel and cold.” Roy can only watch as a tear falls from one eye, tracking it down her cheek until his gaze snaps back up to her eyes. Feels his own eyes flare with heat as they fill yet again. “You imagine the last time you saw them, that moment forever burned into your memory, and you cling to that last trace of them, always, and wish that it was better, wish you had done more, _said_ more.”

Something in Nyssa’s gaze turns hard. Not cold, but calculating and terrible. Rage-filled and passionate.

“You feel like there is something inside of you that is trying to claw its way out, demanding revenge, demanding _justice_ for how the world has wronged you. And it will not rest until you have laid low those who have robbed you of your only happiness.”

The grip on his shoulder tightens further until Roy has to fight back the urge to flinch.

“If you wish to be with your beloved, you may challenge my father. It is your right, as Oliver Queen’s blood is on his hands.”

It takes Roy a moment to process her words, and, when he finally does, he finds himself considering it. He knows that if Oliver fell to Nyssa’s father, then he doesn’t stand a god damn chance. Knows that if he challenges this man, whoever the fuck Nyssa’s father is, he will die. He’ll die, but at least he won’t be alone anymore. Won’t feel like...this. Won’t have to worry about—

Roy’s gaze wanders to somewhere in the distance behind Nyssa as something clicks into place, words spoken not hours ago filtering through his mind, begging, pleading, promises…

He’d promised.

...He’s such a fucking _idiot_.

“God _fucking **damn**_ you, Ollie,” he doesn’t even realize he’s spoken until the words are actually in the air, until the anger is sweeping over him in hot waves again only to be drowned— _again_ —by sadness that crystallizes in his chest, that grips his ribcage and fucking _squeezes_ until he has to fight to suck in something as simple as a breath.

He’d promised. He’d _fucking_ promised Ollie that he’d look after Thea. That he’d take care of her if anything happened to Oliver. Which...he can’t do if he’s dead.

“I can’t,” he whispers lowly, head falling forward into his hands again. “I promised him. I can’t.”

Roy can see Nyssa nod out of the corner of his eye, as if in understanding, before she stands and moves to talk with Felicity and Diggle in hushed tones. He’s fairly certain he catches his name and Oliver’s name, but beyond that he’s not sure. Doesn’t really care, though. Is content with just...existing for a bit, not matter how much he wants to crawl inside his hoodie, to pull it around himself and block the world out. Never mind that the damn thing’d gotten shredded when he got shot, but whatever. It’d smelled like him and Oliver from when they’d been training together, and it’d been the only thing of his that’d smelled like the older man.

The idea of curling up in that, in the one thing that has come to mean _safety_ to him, is so appealing that, for a moment, Roy positively _aches_ with the need for it. But only for a moment. Eventually, his legs start to cramp where he has them curled beneath him, and he leans against the wall to prop himself up, hissing as his knees pop.

“Roy?” Felicity’s voice sounds far away as he uses the hand not against the cool surface of the wall to wipe at his face, sniffling noisily. “You alright?”

His head is shaking and he’s mumbling out a soft, “No,” before he can stop himself, before he can even think of trying to lie, to cover up the truth that’s obvious enough on his face. He’s not sure why, but he feels himself chuckle lowly, and a new wave of tears leak down his cheeks. “No, I’m not alright.”

“Roy, if you need to talk—”

“I’m gonna go,” Roy trails off instead, cutting Felicity off. He knows it’s not fair, knows that she’s probably hurting just as badly as he is, but…

He grips the flechette he keeps hidden in his pocket, the one he’d painted red himself to cover up its green, the one that’d saved his life and started this entire fucking mess. Feels the cool surface and serrated ridges, soothing and sharp at the same time. Walks up the steps and into Verdant, wiping his face on his forearm as he does. The building is mostly empty, save Thea herself as she hauls boxes down from storage. She catches sight of him, smiles in a manner that isn’t unfriendly, before she stops abruptly.

“Roy? What’s wrong?”

Roy blinks at her, eyes feeling too warm as he does, and barely manages to keep himself from saying, “Everything.” There’s a weight behind his eyelids, sudden and fierce, that spreads to his gut and pools down in his feet, freezing him in place. How is he supposed to do this? How is he supposed to just... _pretend_ that everything is fine?

How is he supposed to tell Thea that her brother is dead?

‘ _Promise me, Roy._ ’

A wave of shudders try to overtake him, and it’s only through countless hours of training himself to hold still, of barely allowing himself to breathe so that he can line up a shot, that he fights them back.

‘ _I promise_.’

“Nothing,” he says aloud, hating the way his voice cracks and clearing his throat to cover it. When he speaks again, his voice almost sounds like his world isn’t crumbling down on top of him, like he doesn’t feel like he’s standing in quicksand, like he isn’t slowly sinking .

“Just figured I’d come in early. Help with set up.”

Thea looks at him, looks at him in a way that reminds Roy almost startlingly of Oliver, like she’s looking right through his bullshit and just _knows_ what he’s thinking. Studies him for a moment before she nods, something...something painfully close to sympathy in her eyes. She readjusts her grip on the box in her hands, continuing down the steps.

“Okay. There’s a shipment out back that needs to go upstairs. Some of it needs to go to the bar for tonight, though. I’ll let you know as you bring it in. Sound good?”

Nodding, Roy moves towards the back, steps even, measured.

“When you feel like talking, I’m here, Roy.”

Though he doesn’t turn around, he does acknowledge the soft words with a stutter in his steps and a small nod. Only stops   walking once he’s outside, the alley haunting in its familiarity, as if Ollie’s ghost is still there, about to appear from the dark the moment he turns around.

He’s careful as he pulls the flechette from its hiding place. Places it in the crevice he’d previously used to signal the Hood—christ, had it only been a year ago?—that he’d wanted to talk and stares at it for a few moments. Maybe it’s stupid, desperate, sentimental; whatever. He really doesn’t care. At this point, it’s all he has left.

It’s almost painful for Roy to rip himself away, to grab one of the rattling cardboard boxes from by the door and carry it inside to where Thea’s waiting. He ignores the ache settling into his bones, though, pushes it aside as best as he can.

He has a promise to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> _...This is our[last goodbye](https://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_mz894pedHt1r9e5oeo1.mp3#_=_)._


End file.
